Grand Prison Breakin
by Rubinia
Summary: Warning! Possible mild spoiler to some Heroes past fourth. Odds in total war between fiendish invaders and pre-Reckoning sway. King in the shackles has a brother with old grudges and seemingly stone-heart. The help comes from the least expected side.


Huge hall carved in rock was full of smoke. Uncomfortable heat emanated from streams of melted metal and hot lava ponds, the latter as a strange form of foreign light-source. Dense air was cruddy and foul in taste. Smell of sweat, blood, torn-out intestries, burnt meat and carnal fear was breathtaking.

Dubtlessly, that's the place.

Absence of door-wings indoors was a bit confusing, strictly abnormal in terms of human fortified castles. But then, that wasn't the case. In habitants' view it's enough to have adamant defence of exterior walls and moat full of fire. Nothing adds more to prison mood than wild and vicious air draughts.

Horrid, half-mad in pain scream echoed in the hall almost reaching infinity.

"Go handle the fiends. No deathwave spells. I want all humans alive." the leader ordered a group of really skinny, dark-plates wearing individuals who accompanied him. Two of them raised bared swords, some others readied deadly spells frizzling in their ivory, thin fingers. Only wraiths' eyes shone fiercely with hate. The only problem ever was to channel their wrath effectively. Fleshly flapping of leatherly wings indicated that vampires wasted not a second in rush for blood.

Fight was swift and violent. Dark horses of black knights champed at the bit with gritting teeth, uneasy as they weren't allowed to participate in bloodshed. The leaderman caressed their soft nostrils while following by-ear the advance of his troops. He mused how efficient and ellengant servants they were, aside from zombies. Zombies are only good for burrying them again. Yet still, better have rottings than peasants. These folks doesn't need to eat at least.

Necromanced soldiers were unwaverly loyal. Necromancers were... well, slimy codfish with spiral moral spine. They'd kill out each other if half of them weren't dead already. It's almost like one becomes unevitably paranoic after two or three centuries post mortem.

They've never get what's best in death, really.

Vampire lord materialised by his side and gave stiff, old-fashioned bow. Creature's dark cloak was wet with dense, tar-like blood of pit fiend. It feasted well, even if messy.

"My king, enemy's been slaughtered. We notified four human livings inside here. Shall we bring them forth before yer eyes?" the ghastly creature asked, its eyes shining as valuable rubies and teeth like rabid dog's.

The leaderman refused with firm open-hand gesture.

"No. Lead me to them, Vokial." he decided.

Then he followed the vampire in quick steps. Smoke clarified in the chamber as wraiths pushed it aside, nearer walls. Cruelly sophisticated equipment became more visible, yet still puzzling. They came near first occupied torture-machine where a few of undead were awaiting. One of his generals stepped forward, pointing his dark blade at young-looking figure who wasn't by all means a prisoner put in pain-giving advanced technology. The other poor fellow was entangled in nasty, sharp construct with nails and wheels and saws, but this one was unbound but simply disarmed warrior in scaly armor and horns-adorned face-covering helmet. Soldier was a head shorter than everyone around here and seemingly uncomfortable under keen guard of necrotic creatures.

"My lord, we have taken a hostage. One of old flesh and blood." the black knight explained the situation in husky, unmerciful voice.

Right. It must have been human if she is still living, as undead servants follow all orders to the letter.

"Take off the headpiece." the leaderman demanded with degree of irritation. He had to check and be sure. Though, judging by first look, it must be some bastard knight who has sold his loyalty to fiends for no better reason than saving his hide.

Dark knight rose his heavy-glove burdened hand to hostage's face, but the said one was quicker. Having freed the head from piece of armor, the pale face with burden of rich, curly hair appeared. Bold vivid gray eyes met interlocutor's sight. Hands clenched on bascinet's sphere, but face quite restraint and daring.

"A woman?" the leaderman expressed his surprise. He was the only one to even feel it, as undeads are immanently stoic, which is darn frustrating at times. One can't be sure the torture-machine-trapped fellow though.

"Well then. Who are you and why here?" he asked forth, formally and with degree of boredom. She isn't whom they seek, that's all.

"I am Tyris the Knight, long live the queen Catherine." the hostage said calmly.  
"As you see, I am in disguise in heart of fiends' bloody fortress in servitude to Enroth and Erathia crown."

Young blood never forgot her tongue, one must admit.

"Boldly said in captive by Deyans." he remarked with quite cruel grin.  
"Mind you explain in lenght what is your goal here?" insisted further, then. Subtle vibre in the voice indicated death-threat.

"Intelligence recognition and startegic retrieval." Tyris answered promptly.

"Retrieval of what?" he asked deliberately.

"Prisoners." she said after a momentary hesitation and but a miniature accent shift, as if plural form was made in haste, contrary to first thought.

The leaderman slowly smiled.

"You know the next question." he guessed with expressive geture of signets-adorned hands.

"Pardon, but this I can't tell." Tyris said with due etiquette.

"How convienient we are in torture chamber." he noted an not-so-veiled threat.

Then turned and looked at the man trapped in pain-delivering device. There was something... something... striking in blood and bruises covered figure, so simmilar to years-old zombie made from starving pauper. He turned poor sob's face to the light. Fiends happen to handle prisoners with overexcessive cruelty.

The Deyan leaderman pulled randomly a lever and said man screamed out. Tyris bite her lips and the moment he reached for another leverage, she exclaimed:

"No! Stop! I... I shall tell. But don't harm him!"

He withdrowed a hand and looked at her expectantly.

"I am here to secure escape of Sir Ragnar, a virtious general who's imprisoned here." she said on a one breath, painfull look on her face.  
"Among with as many Enrothian hostages I can save." Tyris continued and gathered her determination to conclude:  
"But I couldn't poison fiends' drink and food. I'd need alchemist or mage to do it. Like... this one." she pointed at freshly tortured man.

"Is that a mage?" the leaderman asked, glancing at tremendously worn-out human sample.

"Quite skillfull one. If he has survived this long..." Tyris said in almost pleading tone.  
"I know you're no friend of fiends. Save him and he'll be of use." she reasoned, carefull not to call on virtues like mercy and generosity. No Deyan hero would take them as compliment ever. She hardly knew there are living humans among their ranks. So much there is to learn...

"Tis' enough. You'd make an excellent lich, Knightness." the leaderman cut off, sending her a keen look.  
"I bet you excell in game of chess."

He walked around the torture table and looked at the hostage mage with regard.

"Knock her out. Strap him off. Revive him with her life-energy so that he could walk. Tie them together." the leaderman ordered.

Soundy thud happened after the first dot indicating that dark knights are as prompt martinets as ever. The Deyans leader turned sharply on the heel and rushed to check nature and state of remaining human souls here. Two bodies were curled into blood-wet cogs of torture deivices. Constructor clearly took inspiration from meat mincer, but combined it with gritter and rototiller. At least that would be conclusion derived if the Might and Magic world was more technology-orientated.

One prisoner was a dead halfling who couldn't stand savage, brute forces of fiends' made pain machinery. Short fellow enriched the group's ranks among with slaughtered down pit fiends and magogs as a relatively fresh zombie. Too slow to accompany them in long term, they'll make excellent un-living baricades on the corridor corners. Again, doors-lacking can be confusing.

Inside the same agony machine was a freshly put there man who started to scream as halfling was necromanced. He had slightly elven face features and broken nose. Swift interrogation revealed he has been fiends' prisoner for but a few days and he has seen a fallen king himself.

"What makes you think he was a king?" the leaderman asked.

"I recognised from old painting I saw in Steadwick, sir." he said. "Depicted with crown, who but a king?"

That calls for consideration.

"Fallen, you say?" the leaderman gritted. "You've been most helpful." he said dryly and turned at his undead men.  
"Gag him, he's going with us, hands strapped behind back." ordered then hastely, forming an opinion they've already wasted much time.

"And the fourth? Where is he?" the leaderman asked impatiently addressing the vampire lord. Vokial the Bloodthirsty bowed in his stiff manner.

"I hear you, my king." he acknowledged with respect.  
"The last and the fourth living human inside this torture chamber is you, and noone more."

There was a moment of blissfull silence.

"Well, in that case we shall find more of living people. Onward on to search the prison cells." the leaderman commanded.  
"Loose formation. Blades and fangs ready."

They marched (and floated, concerning wraiths) out the other archway of death-silent torture chamber in Kreegan secret stronghold.


End file.
